


Red Aftermath

by alovelylittlescandal



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Cannibalism, Depression, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, No one whumps Will Graham harder than canon, Panic Attacks, Someone Help Will Graham, do we need to tag that anymore?, everything is people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 07:11:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alovelylittlescandal/pseuds/alovelylittlescandal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the arrest of Hannibal, Will tries to go on living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Set before the events of 'Red Dragon', taking into account the events of Hannibal (TV) canon.

                You don’t remember who you were two months ago. Or if you ever knew for certain beyond the markers they gave you for identification. Your ID, your face already sallow with things to come. Your tin badge. Your toy gun. Rubber bullets to play cops and robbers. You did not know what you were signing up for when you came to Quantico. You thought you could help, as if helping was as easy as extending a hand. But helping matters very little when killers’ words steal your voice to speak about the dead. And the very soft parts of you have been eaten away by the very person you gave to keep them safe.

                The thought of eating repulses you now. You do not eat very much anymore. You rearrange neatly. Peas to the side, mashed potatoes cultivated into a volcano. Tofu for protein. Never again a stew or a pot roast or any other dish where meat’s true nature can be camouflaged by culinary talent. Because yes, you admit shamefully to yourself, Dr. Lecter had talent.

                Food makes you nauseous, many things do now, in fact. You are ashamed by your own inability to eat, your own _instability_. On the hard days, to survive, you eat energy bars and drink Ensure. You pinch your mouth close to forestall any regurgitation. You have never been this thin before.

                You often find panic fluttering in your chest, running under the suture lines that go down your left side. Where Dr. Lecter sliced you up and then left you to die.

                You call him _Dr. Lecter_ in your head because that distances you from your previous intimacy. Freddie Lounds from the _TattlerCrime_ calls him ‘Hannibal the Cannibal’. She calls you crazy.

                And you are crazy. Nuts. Bolt off the door, the horses have left the barn. You have never been normal—always a few degrees away from sane. You have left those distant shores for full blown madness. It is the right word. You can sense your own madness with the seeping desperation left in the wake of an extended stay in the mental hospital. They cured the encephalitis, but gave you a new diagnosis in its wake.

                Your new psychiatrist (FBI rubber stamped) is a nervous looking Asian woman with a severe ponytail. She has been chosen precisely because she does not resemble Dr. Lecter in any way. You were supposed to consider her non-threatening and open up. As if you would ever put your mind in anyone else’s hands again.

                You sit in silence during your sessions, staring out the window. She calls this a dissociative fugue. You just want to sit without being in your body for another minute and let your limbs sit in heavy lead. Mind wandering separately. The sessions are mandatory but no one ever said you have to talk.

                “How is it going, Will?” she asks.

                You shrug. Your hand brushes your face and the rough beginnings of a beard. You need to shave. You make a point of shaving now. It distances you from your previous image of Lecter’s plaything.

She sits behind her desk because you do not want to look at her face-to-face. She has a pad of legal paper and a fine fountain pen in front of her. The tip is sharp with black ink, wet from copious use. She has written many things about you although you have volunteered very little.

                “Taking the diazepam?” she says.

                You nod. You want to close your eyes and sleep in this leather chair. But Dr. Wang has other patients waiting for her. You force yourself to stand.

                “We still have fifteen minutes left,” she says.

                You stare at her. You cannot summon the words you need to make your case. You can barely keep your eyes open. You point to the door as you feel your hands start to shake.

                “I need to feed the dogs,” you say inanely.

                “Will…” she begins, soft but firm.

                “They’re going to starve,” you stammer and shove your way out of the office.

                You spill your breakfast into the rectangular bushes next to the handicap ramp while traffic proceeds down Main Street. You dry heave until nothing more comes up and your nose runs. Your face flushes from humidity and shame. You are left with a sour taste in your mouth as you lean up against the railing. A few people from inside Dr. Wang’s office are either staring, or making a point not to stare.

                It is only a matter of time before Dr. Wang comes out, and you walk to your car to avoid that conversation. She will try to talk you down, but you do not want to hear her gentle voice teasing out this recent episode. It takes you three tries to insert your keys into the ignition. You drive under 25 mph all the way home.

You are Will Graham.

                You are in Marathon, Florida.

                And you want to give up the rest of your life.

 

***

                You catch the newspaper headlines the next morning when you go into town. You see the murders in Atlanta, in Birmingham and think of crossing state lines and FBI jurisdiction. The FBI did not stop existing when you left. Other murders have happened—they could have used you. But you do not care anymore. Caring has brought you to early retirement, ugly scares and a sickening paranoia.

                You rarely talk to anyone now. Not Jack, who visited in the hospital. Or Alana Bloom. Or anyone who knew you when you were still Will Graham, FBI investigator. You have your dogs and what little Lecter left of your mind.

                 The one place you frequent can almost make you feel normal again. Molly Foster, the owner, has blonde hair and smiles when she talks to you. Most of the time, you remember to smile back. She has a young son named Willy who stares at you curiously because you do not make eye contact. You can fake conversation well enough but the effort is exhausting, the reward non-existent. You wish that you could take Molly out on a real date. Like a real man would.

                She knows your routine by now and brings a cup of coffee over. It feels right to flash her a smile and raise your eyes from under your glasses.

                “Hey, Will,” Molly says. She slides into the empty seat in front of you.

                You mumble your hello and focus on the bitter taste of the coffee.

                “Everything good today?” she asks.

                “The dogs are good,” you reply. “I took them to the beach.”

                You know you should not talk so much about the dogs but you can’t help it. The dogs are much more human than people for you.

                “Is Winston feeling better?”

                “He just ate something bad.”

                Your stomach instinctively convulses and you make a point of drinking more coffee.

                “Did you want your grilled cheese now?”

                You avert your eyes. Yes, Molly. You would like that very much. A grilled cheese and a slice of her heart.

                You spill your coffee. It floods the table. You can feel your hands start to shake.

***

                Jack Crawford comes to visit the next afternoon. You can hear the crunch of tires on gravel and duck instinctively below the front window. You know he has come for you. You convince yourself so thoroughly of your own invisibility that it surprises you when he knocks on the door.

                “No,” you call back firmly. You ought to make your feelings known right away. Even though Jack already knows your feelings and has chosen to disregard them. There is no other reason why he would be here. You were firm in the face of emails. You intend to maintain your resolve.

                “You look good,” says Jack, looking down at you through the glass.

                The last time he saw you, you were on morphine and being fed through an IV. You see no point in mentioning this caveat.

                “I’m not doing it,” you say.

                “If you’ve been reading the papers you know how bad it is.”

                “That’s really not my problem anymore.”

                “Ten bodies. Six of them are kids. We just need a little bit of insight.”

                There are other profilers beside you. They must be very hard up if they need to come crawling back to you.

                “You were the best, Will,” says Jack. He taps the edge of the folder against the glass. You can’t help looking at it.

                Jack has watched you drown in your own mind and never once thought of anything other than the closure of his own cases. This work has nearly killed you and he will send you back out again regardless.

                A little insight. And all you need is a little rest.

                You think of the two families, the dead, whose only speech comes from their psychopathic killer. You think of Molly and her son, and hope they never have to see what the Jacobis and Leeds families saw.

                You open the door. “I’ll need to see the crime scenes. Alone.”

                


End file.
